


On my Honor

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the DA kinkmeme a while ago:</p><p>Aveline killed the Arishok instead of Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On my Honor

Varric rubs his brow but it doesn't smooth away the unhappy wrinkles, it doesn't soothe the ache in his heart. How many times will he have to tell this story? Relive it? Say the words he knows are false while his heart aches with the truth?

He's chosen to reshape history this way, because that's what they all wanted, when it was said and done.

But now as he's sipping the water the Seeker's had brought for his sore, dry throat, he's seeing the reality behind the shadows and it makes his hands shake with anger, with the memory of regret.

"She swung, and parried, and brought her sword crashing down on the Arishok's neck like a knife through butter. Remember our quarrel about the ogre, after all- Hawke had long since made herself familiar with the fastest way to rid the world of big, stubborn horn-headed monsters. The blood was _everywhere_."

So much, so much blood; but not the Arishok's blood. Not yet. Cassandra is leaning in, her eyes lit with curiosity.

This is the story everyone hears.

But the story rolling like angry lightning through Varric's mind is the visceral shouting, the cruel snarls of the nobles, jeering and bashing Hawke-- no warrior, in fact, but an archer, her shoulders proud, her short hair hanging sweaty in her face.

The whole thing had gone badly from the start, the Arishok getting a lucky blow on Hawke that had ripped her right arm so far from its socket that she couldn't draw her bow. She had done her best to wear him down, good hand armed with a dagger, but the end result was obvious.

People had shouted things like 'coward' and 'finish it!' and 'his legs! go for his legs!'

Varric had forced himself to watch, even as the Arishok speared Hawke on his sword, drawing her up into the air, had forced himself to watch while Hawke pulled herself along that sword with madness and delirium bright in her eyes, and his heart had died in his throat when she jammed her dagger into the Arishok's black eye, sinking it home with a bloody smirk and her dying breath.

And Aveline had screamed like a demon, lunging through the crowd, sword out and steel had _crashed_ , silencing the shouts of horror and dismay from the noblemen and women.

The Arishok, dizzy, had turned to Aveline, his remaining eye wild.

"You...are not...basalit-an," he had croaked, huge hands shaking with anger. "Do you- dishonor- your champion?"

"I _am_ Hawke," Aveline had hissed, gesturing broadly to include Varric, to include Isabela, and Anders who was struggling to go to the crumpled archer who already lay dead on the floor, screaming for her. Isabela-- she had been crying, holding herself. Varric had looked up when that sweep of Aveline's shield had snapped his gaze from the dagger protruding, even still, from the Arishok's head and he had nodded.

That had been enough, it seemed, for the Arishok had smiled a cruel smile, bellowing "Then let the Basalit-an's lawmaker flail against me until I break her, too!"

The rest is just flashes in Varric's memory now. Aveline bashing the Arishok's head in with her shield one blow at a time, until he had been staggering numbly, drooling blood, head down. _She_ had lopped off the giant's head. _She_ had saved Kirkwall.  
And as soon as it was done she had wheeled on the noblemen and women, snarling them to silence. " _I will have order!_ "

They had quieted.

"You," she had turned to the remaining members of the Arishok's party. "We have paid our debt. A champion for a champion."

The helmeted one had nodded, calling the others. They'd left.

Aveline's voice, still shaking with fury, had carried through the very foundations of the building, or so it seemed. "Anders, Isabela, carry her home. Do it." As they left, the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander had entered, only to find the bloodstained Guard-Captain at the head of it all.

Before they could say a word, she had gotten in Meredith's face, teeth bared. "I just did your job, templar. I suggest you cease to impede mine."

But.

That story has no happier an ending than the other one. At least in the other story, Hawke lives long enough to reunite with her lover, she saves Kirkwall, she lives happily with her friends for a few more years before Anders loses all reason and destroys the Chantry. A heroic tragedy, but less tragic than it is heroic.

Cassandra, Varric can tell, is eating it up. Let her.

If he didn't know better, he would too, every word; but the truth is, his heart stopped beating for this cold, pale world all those years ago, there in the throne room. It hadn't been Anders or Isabela or Merrill or Fenris that made the worst mistake of all, and walked out on her after their first night, frightened as a fresh-faced whore.

In Varric's experience, the truth just isn't all it's cracked up to be.


End file.
